#swatch rot?

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Machine washed all my recent swatches. I should've taken a before photo for all of them but I forgor. Most of these have noticeable wrinkling which if I were more patient I would've controlled against. But at the end of the day if I'm going to make either a blanket or a sweater out of an machine dry-able yarn, I'm going to throw it in the dryer and live with whatever comes out.

Since I intend for this to be a master post for these swatches for me to refer back to, I'll update in a couple days with any that noticeably change gauge/get less wrinkled with relaxation. (Which I do expect, the "washed gauge" listed below should be taken with a grain of salt)

Willow Yarns Daily DK in Coffee (left), Willow Yarns Daily Worsted in Pomegranate (right)

Daily Dk swatch; 36 Stitches wide, US 6 (4.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 24 stitches by 33 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 24 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches)

Daily Worsted swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 22 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 22 stitches by 31 rows (per 4 inches)

Notes: These two value wools held up as expected to the washer/dryer. That is, not as well as Wool of the Andes Superwash (WotAS), but not Terribly. Putting WotAS through a cleaning cycle resulted in very little change in how the final product looked, there's a little pilling but the actual stitches are very clearly defined. With the Willow line, it's like the actual yarn is superwash (I'm able to unply the tails on these swatches fairly easily) but there's a halo around the yarn that is non superwash and thus felting. It doesn't seem to effect the actual fabric much, but it does make these swatches look more "aged" in comparison to the socks I knit out of WotAS even tho these swatches have only had one washer cycle and the socks have had multiple + wear. It's very possible that with a wool cycle washer/dryer, the surface felting would be less pronounced.

Premier Basix in Mahogany, Herrschners Supreme Worsted in Carmine

Premier Basix swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 18 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 18 stitches by 27 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The name does not lie, basic as hell value acrylic. Didn't get incredibly softer in the wash and feels very "sturdy" for value acrylic. Good stitch definition tho.

Herrschners Supreme Worsted swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; Possibly the most accurate Caron Simply Soft dupe I've ever seen. If I didn't hate that yarn I would be more impressed. Good drape for a worsted acrylic and impressive stitch definition.

Herrschners 2-ply Classic Afghan in Almond, Herrschners Baby Wonder in Sandbox

Herrschners 2-ply Classic Afghan swatch; 40 Stitches wide, US 4 (3.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 26 stitches by 33 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 26 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; This yarn is worse than the Herrschners Afghan yarn in practically every way. It was less pleasant to knit (had a plastic feel), less soft overall, and the scarring from wrinkles is far more pronounced. I would be less negative about this yarn if I didn't buy the superior version in the same lot but it is what it is.

Herrschners Baby Wonder swatch; 36 Stitches wide, US 6 (4.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 23 stitches by 30 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 23 stitches by 31 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The tension change from stockinette to garter really fucked this swatch up, it's rolling up noticeably more than the other swatches. Other than that, this yarn is pretty uneventful? It's not particularly soft nor particularly not soft. It's not something I want to rub my face on but I could wear a garment made from it without issue. The wool blend plays well with the acrylic in this yarn and the stitch definition is nice at this gauge.

Lion Brand Pound of Love in Straw, Herrschners Worsted 8 in Espresso

Lion Brand Pound of Love swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; I do not like this yarn but I got it for extremely cheap so I decided to throw it into this swatch mix and it's still the same. Has a rough plasticy texture in comparison to the other value acrylics I tested here. My biggest problem with it continues to be how inconsistent the texture is within the same ball of yarn, in this single ball I've used it's gone from relatively soft to relatively rough and back.

Herrschners Worsted 8 swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; I expected to utterly hate this yarn but I'm pleasantly surprised by it. The texture is Odd? I've not used a yarn that felt like this one for a very long time, it feels rather unenjoyable in the ball but knits up wayyy softer. I should've bought a lighter colour for this swatch since it's hard to tell the stitches from each other. I'll definitely consider using this yarn over my beloved Big Twist Value for blankets in the future.

Herrschners Afghan in Bing Cherry, Held Single (left) and Held Double (right)

Held Single swatch; 40 Stitches wide, US 4 (3.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 27 stitches by 35 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 27 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches)

Held Double swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches)

Notes: The real winner of this whole swatching is Herrschners Afghan held single. There's nothing wrong with it held double really (other than the terrible wrinkle but alas that's my fault) but held single, this yarn has incredible drape, softness, and stitch definition. For a really long time I've really wanted to knit a thin v neck sweater to replace one I had a good decade ago, but I've not found a yarn that would be worth the cost (both currency and labor) to justify knitting a sweater in my size at such small gauge. But This yarn absolutely hits that mark. A few negatives; Mild sheen (personal dislike, tho it's not terrible in this yarn). Had the most knots of any of the yarns I tested (I believe there was 3 total, 2 in one ball, 1 in the other). Center pulling this yarn was NOT fun, had major yarn barf that really wanted to tangle in on itself for one of the balls and the yarn is so light and airy it was hard to untangle.

Herrschners Aran in Heather, Premier Anti Pilling Everyday in Walnut

Herrschners Aran swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; Terrible. yarn. The nicest thing I can say about it is that I like the colour and that it holds it's shape well. It feels like the world's scratchiest wool but clearly made out of plastic and broken dreams. I've never had an acrylic yarn make my hands itch before. The only thing I could realistically see using this yarn for is something like baskets/yarn bowls.

Premier Anti Pilling Everyday swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 19 stitches by 25 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; stitches by 27 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The other yarn that reminded me of Caron Simply Soft but not nearly as impressive as the Herrschners Supreme Worsted. It does feel more sturdy than the Supreme Worsted but is maybe half as soft with a much worse drape. The only way I would buy this yarn again is if it was dirt cheap, otherwise it doesn't bring anything to the table that other yarns don't but better (other than maybe being anti pilling, tho I've never had a real issue with pilling from my value acrylics).

[gardenvarietycrafts]

Shetland Lace Class

The knitter's guild had Lauren Nelkin, a knitting pattern designer who also teaches knitting classes, host a series of classes this weekend, and I was fortunate enough to be able to snag a spot that had opened up for her class on Shetland lace knitting this morning! These are the swatches I made of the bead stitch and bird's eye stitch, though I mostly worked on the bird's eye stitch at home. There's also a sample of a lace edging that's quite a bit bigger repeat, and a bit more intimidating, that I'll attempt to swatch up later.

[please-dont-pet-the-okapi]

The palms of my winter gloves have dry-rotted, so ✨guess who's learning to crochet mittens✨!

[movedtodykedvonte]

you ask for prompts and I gotta say, I’d love to see the Big Angst of the eviction day scene

You will be both delighted and disappointed by this I suppose...

[lightnersdream]

i got no drawing done today bc i was busy and no I'm tired everytging is so unfair

[whyhellosims]

WHS-GhostlyArms

Happy Simblreen, my friends! Tonight's treat is just as you see it, two ghostly, glowing arms reaching from the ether!

Info and links beneath the cut:

There are two base game compatible packages, a right and a left hand. Each have the exact same swatches, so you can mix and match. There are three frame options: Black, gold, and silver. There are four different arm options: A glowing pale gray, a lavaform, a space theme, and a rotting/zombie one. Each arm has a variation of plain and bloody/gooey, so you can choose your level of ew. Yes, these do glow, but they are not lamps (sorry, I tried, it's above my pay grade). You can't size them up, sorry, but they are scaled to be the size of an actual sim's hand, so unless you're into ghostly titans, you shouldn't need to scale them up. You can find them under wall decorations, but if you're stumped, just search WHS and they should pop up!

More in-game shots:

TOU: No pay sites ever. This item is free always, no conditions, no a*fly links. If you use it and you want to credit me, I’d love to see your sims, so just tag me. 

If you like my work, please consider a reblog to spread the word? Got requests? Need specific recolors? Find a problem? Please feel free to send me an ask or a DM! I promise I don’t bite and I’m still learning, so I’m happy to help!

Thank you to:

@simblreenofficial

@mospookers

@mmfinds

@alwaysfreecc

Moar WHS CC

Here we goes!

Left Arm ➡ SFS Link / Google Drive

Right Arm ➡ SFS Link / Google Drive

[simsantoinc]

Pool Edge and Floor Recolors

The reupload of @shastakiss ' simlrbirthay pool party reminded me that I had recoloring Rosebine's pool edges and floors to match them rotting on my project list. There's 6 recolors of the edges and floors to match the slide recolors and shasta's purple one. I also edited the edge files to disable the outdoor shadows.

Meshes are included. All files are compressed with included swatch and preview. Swatch

Download | Alt

[dearlyjun]

— pov: yeonjun is your boyfriend 𖤐

pairing: boyfriend!yeonjun x you!

genre: all fluff

warnings: none (except maybe delusion)

authors note: I had a bad case of yeonjun delusion/brain rot this morning so I sped wrote these thoughts and tried my best not to ramble :) enjoy babes.

see beomgyu’s version here!

—

boyfriend!yeonjun who always brings a spare pair of headphones whenever you both go on a trip, just in case you forget yours.

boyfriend!yeonjun who knows what kind of ramen is your most favorite and knows exactly how to make it the way you like it. with all the toppings. <3

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to take pictures of you. he’s the definition of “instagram boyfriend” the way he captures all of your angles and takes multiple shots so that you can choose what one to post. you always return the favor.

boyfriend!yeonjun loves when you borrow his clothes without him knowing about it, then sees you post on Instagram with it on. might ask for outfit credits though.

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to watch you paint your nails and will sometimes ask to pick the color out. sometimes will even ask for you to paint his as well to match.

boyfriend!yeonjun always makes sure you’ve eaten, and had something to drink. if you say no, he’s buying you something right away.

boyfriend!yeonjun who finds the comfiest place to lay his head to be your lap. whether you’re hanging out with his members as a group, or the both of you are watching a movie or something; his head is in your lap. He also loves when you play with his hair and comb your fingers through it; he’ll even sometimes fall asleep like this.

boyfriend!yeonjun loves to help you cook. even when you tell him you don’t need or want any help, he finds it funny when you eventually cave In and ask for his help when you can’t do too many things at once.

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to go makeup shopping with you. he lets you swatch things on him and sometimes wants you to test longevity of products by kissing him. but how can you say no?

boyfriend!yeonjun who kisses you all over your face and squeezes you so so tight when he is proud of your accomplishments. I can imagine him being like this when you graduate from college and everyone’s trying to take pics and he’s just all over you in the most loving way <3

—

[toxintouch]

yk how in veres likes on his character sheet it says he like cooking (badly)…… WHY HAS NO ONE DONE A FIC ABOUT THAT YET‼️⁉️⁉️ THAT SHOULD NOTTT BE A WASTED OPPORTUNITY. i’m not even joking im ab to send this to so many people because i can’t let this go to waste 😞

Here u are anon!  For the record, you are completely free to send this prompt around wherever you’d like!  It was such a fun idea, I’d love to see more takes on it. ^^

Warnings: Vere talking Innuendos? Innuendos.  So many, and I don’t guarantee that they are funny lol.  Just a general silly vibe and imo: absolutely  tooth rotting fluff.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅SOUS CHEF ‧₊˚♡₊˚

You find yourself wandering through Lowtown during the lunch hour, trying to decide what sounds like a good meal.

Your mouth waters at the scents being carried on the breeze, a plethora of pleasant aromas wafting out of the eateries nestled inside the Amaryllis District, so fragrant that you can smell them all the way down on the bustling streets of Lowtown as long as you stay downwind.

However, if there’s one nice thing about knowing Leander it's that you also know you don’t have to go that far (or spend that much) for a delicious lunch. 

Near enough to the Wet Wick, there’s a series of side streets that make up an eclectic amalgamation of Lowtown and the Amaryllis District, and in it: a small and inconspicuous eatery.  The menu changes often, though you aren’t sure if that’s out of innovation or necessity, but the food is always filling and reasonably priced.

You follow the winding streets, getting lost for a brief moment before correcting your course, traveling until you see colorful chipped girih tiles and wide, clean windows.  You let yourself into the shop, the now familiar sound of hinges in need of an oiling welcoming you.  

There’s an assortment of goods on display–jars of honey and spiced fruit and loaves of braided bread with seeds–all kept safely locked away beneath an enchanted pane of glass.

Looking around, though, you don’t see anyone selling said fantastic wares.

You call out, expecting the shop keep or her wife to come running but instead you hear…silence.

Followed by a loud metallic clatter.

You freeze, unsure what to do, what the threat is–if there’s even a threat?–but before you can make up your mind, you’re greeted by a most unexpected sight.

Vere comes out of the kitchen area, his hair swept into an artfully stunning up-do that reveals the long line of his neck and clavicle, blemished only by the heavy collar locked around his throat. 

He’s wearing a weighty linen apron over his clothing, presumably to protect his outfit, though–his long gossamer sleeves are completely discordant with the notion, making you think that maybe the apron is more of an aesthetic choice.

“What’s this–?  A mouse?  In my kitchen?” Vere asks playfully as you continue to stare, dumbfounded.  He wields a spatula in his hand like a weapon–swatching it into his off-hand like a riding crop with a decisive snap.

“Where is–?”

“–The shop keep?  Wherever she pleases–the shop’s closed on Mondays.”

(You really don’t like the way he’s watching you…  Or the way he keeps inching closer…)

You take a step backwards, your eyes never leaving his.  “Oh,” you say, bandaged hands reaching blindly behind you.  “I didn’t realize.  The door was unlocked, so…”  You trail off.

You find the doorknob at last.  You attempt to turn it only to find that it won’t budge.

“Was it?”

Vere saunters up to you, tail swaying behind him.  You manage to tear your eyes away from his predator stare to search for possible exits, though you know for a fact you won’t be fast enough.   You look back and he’s already in your space, crowding you against the entryway.

(He smells really good, actually.  Like leather and spice and the subtle cling of perfume and incense.  And beneath that, something–earthy–animalistic, but in a way that’s intoxicating as opposed to unpleasant.)

“I was just about to make myself a snack–how nice that a snack came to me.”

“Stop playing around.” You try to steel yourself and inject the perfect amount of scolding into your voice while combating his heated stare.  “I know you’re just fucking with me to try and get a reaction; you and I both know you’re not going to eat me.” 

If he was, he would have done it by now.  Sometime within the weeks you’ve known him.  …Probably. 

Unless he just likes to play with his food.

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well,”  he says, looking amused.  “Perhaps I didn’t plan to, but now I simply can’t resist.  You look so absolutely delectable, how could I possibly contain myself?”

You don’t get the chance to reply.  Vere’s countenance changes suddenly–you watch his ears flatten a second before you hear the screaming whistle of a teapot.  His ears twitch in annoyance at the sound, his perfectly sculpted face showing a sour sneer.  He gives you a sideways glance, calculating.

“Then again.  I find myself in need of a sous chef.  Congratulations on your promotion.  Come along now.”  He hooks a finger into your cloak and pulls you easily into the kitchen.  (To be fair, you don’t struggle.  Anyone would want to see where this is going, right?)

He releases you once you’ve crossed over the threshold, waving his fingers uncaringly towards a second apron affixed to a hook on the wall as he beelines to remove a glass teapot from the stove and stifle the noise.  He moves quickly as you watch, casually throwing aside the spatula in his hand in favor of an ornate silver teaspoon.  He measures a vibrantly colored tea into the inlaid steeping container of the equally ornate teapot and takes a pleased inhale as the tea’s fragrance blooms, humming as he flips over a delicate hourglass to keep track of the steeping time.

There’s silence for a moment–

Him watching the teapot and you watching him.

“Well?”  He asks, without looking up.  You’ve seen this look before, you think – this pensive, almost lonesome look that makes your heart ache against all better judgment.  “Staying or going?”

He grins when you put on the apron.  You search his face for some sincerity, but he’s all sharp teeth and tall ears, covering any glimpses of deeper emotion with a sheen of smugness.  He circles you once you have the apron on, taking in the image.

“Mm, don’t you just look adorable.  Very domesticated.”

You’re pretty sure that the word he’s looking for is domestic. But of course, he knows what he said and he meant to say it.  You decide that he’s probably betting on your correction, already armed with a witty retort.  You smooth the apron down while pointedly looking away, deciding that you won’t give him the satisfaction.  You hear him chuckle.

Since you’re avoiding looking at Vere, you look around the kitchen for the first time.

It’s a spacious workspace–moreso than the storefront, even.  There’s a large iron stove unlike anything you’ve ever seen, covered with magical runes and dials, with a large hearth built into the belly of it.  A plethora of pots and pans have been placed on the burners, left to sizzle and pop in the red hot heat.  

Oil is singing from the heated, shallow basins but you don’t see anything cooking inside.  

There’s a slab of meat diced into neat squares and a heaping bowl of lumpy batter set to the side of the stove top.

“What are you making?”  You ask, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Panko crusted fish filet.  And there’s a pasta in the oven.  For dessert, I was thinking–” he gives you a sly look, one that makes your ears feel warm, “hmm, well.  I just had a much better idea in regards to dessert.”  He makes a show of licking his fangs, the movements of his tongue slow and sensual.

You think you tied your apron too tight; your airway is feeling a little constricted.  It seems to be getting worse the longer you watch.

You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away.  More ingredients, most partially prepared, and a host of dirtied pots and pans greet you.  You turn your back to him as you explore, fully engrossed in all of the views that the mess of a kitchen has to offer.  You’re almost afraid to ask: “So, what am I here to help with?”

“Oh?”  You don’t hear Vere come up next to you, but you feel him brushing up against you.  “Does my darling sous chef require…instruction?  A guiding hand, so to speak?”  You freeze, feeling his breath against your ear, shivers running down your spine at his light and teasing chuckle.

But then he’s breezing past you, making a wide dramatic gesture toward the large tome perched surreptitiously on the counter.  “Lucky for you, I’ve a recipe.”  His tail wags swishes elegantly behind him as he beams with pride.

His tail knocks the whisk out of the mystery batter beside the fish filet but he takes no notice.

Vere hops gracefully up onto the counter, reaching for the batter.  He does an impressive twist in order to grab hold of another whisk and you take the time to appreciate that.  Then, with Vere occupied and seemingly ignoring you, you take a look at the recipe book.  

The text is old and withered with the occasional dash of sprawling spidery script painting the margins.  (Said writing is utterly illegible–you’re actually not sure if it’s in a language you can read, though if you squint you think you can see something that looks like the word ‘cake’.)  The page it’s opened to is ripped in half, rendering precious steps of the recipe lost to time.  You spot a mysterious bite mark piercing through the corner of the leather cover.

And can’t stop yourself from surreptitiously glancing over at Vere.  He’s moved on from the batter (which looks as lumpy as it did a minute ago) and is now eating skewers of raw fish with his nails.

“You’re not supposed to eat while you cook,” you say, the time worn words out of your mouth before you can examine your personal stance on them.

“Says who?  Some limp dick?  No shame in indulging, pet.”

“You’re not even gonna have anything left to cook,” you warn.

“Hum, sounds like my sous chef should get to work covering them in batter instead of just standing there before I eat them all.”

You roll your eyes, but follow through with instructions.  The space is unfamiliar and your movements are slow and unsure with Vere looming over you from his perch on high, watching.

One of the pans of oil gives an ominous pop.  “Hmm, sounds like it’s hot enough,” says Vere.  “Move over.”

“Is that safe?”

“For me,” Vere says simply.  “And it’s faster.  Now stand further back or you'll get splattered–and not in the fun way.”  Idly, he tosses a batter covered filet into the shallow pan.  The resulting hiss makes you both cringe.

As if on queue, the hourglass for the tea gives a gentle chime, lighting up with a golden glow.  (You’re beginning to wonder how this humble shop can afford all these magical items, but then again this is the city of secrets.  You’re probably better off not knowing.)  Vere’s ears perk up, pleased.  He tosses the remaining fillets in the pan without a fuss, setting lids on top of each to contain the oil, acting as if doing so is going to stop any potential disaster.

Main course forgotten, he moves on to digging something out from inside one of the many cupboards.  “Be a dear and cut this for me, will you?”  He hands you a delicate peach before heading to the tea pot, stirring the contents and adding what must be a priceless amount of honey.

The peach in your hand is overripe but still vibrant–amazing, as you haven’t seen fresh fruit at all since you came to Eridia.  Your mouth waters anew as you remember what led you here in the first place–your quest for a meal–and you’re almost tempted to take a bite, follow Vere’s advice and sink your teeth in.

“My, my.  I’m almost jealous.  I thought you only looked at me like that.”

Vere shushes the denial from your lips, bossing you around regarding how he wants the peach sliced before shooing you out of his way and finishing his remaining tea preparations,with the look of an artist at work.  The tea is a warm oolong color, made only more alluring once the infusion of peach is complete.

It’s refreshing, too, once Vere serves it to you over ice.

You can almost ignore the great plumes of smoke coming from the oven.

Vere cooks how others might enjoy a leisurely stroll. 

Which is to say, he seems to be having fun, but you’re not convinced he intends on really going anywhere.  Still, there’s a rhythm to it–a dance, though he leads you in expected loops and turns, changes the tune at a moment's notice.  He’ll get bored of the task at hand and find some new spice to peruse, demand you taste test an ingredient or give your opinion on a dizzying new flavor he’s concocted.

(He manages to convince you to sample a bit of cucumber soup from the cold box.  You retch, proclaiming it salty, downing another glass of delicious peach oolong–

“I can still taste it in the back of my throat…!”–and he cackles wildly.)

Thick locks of hair are falling out of his up-do by the time he’s satisfied, framing his face and bringing your attention, again to the inviting line of his clavicle.  He tosses his loose hair over his shoulder, preening.

The recipe book is basically ruined, and the pasta is null and void, but some of the fillets look mildly edible.  The artful garnish is beautiful, at least.  The kale and orange slices really bring out the crispy burnt bits.  Vere seems to enjoy plating the food a great deal, humming and rearranging and circling the display until he deems it arranged to perfection.

He’s elegant when he takes a bite, biting down with a crunch.  His tail goes very still for a moment, then shivers microscopically as he chews.  He swallows in a manner that you can only describe as dignified, dabbing his lips with a napkin.  You wait in anticipation, but Vere says nothing for a long time.  Then, he quietly takes the old recipe book and throws it away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t insist on you trying it too.

You end up snacking on some of the pre-made goods, drinking the remaining tea and lounging at one of the shop’s cozy little tables.  The mood is light and easy, and the view is magnificent.  Outside, there’s nothing but trash littered streets and urchins, but inside…the afternoon glow coming from the window illuminates Vere like a sunset, painting him in dazzling shades of gold and red and bronze.

Vere hums, peering at you pointedly through his sooty lashes.  “So, dessert?”

You can’t imagine the look that comes across your face–whatever it is, it makes Vere laugh.

“What are you giving me that look for?  My intentions are pure.” His voice is a masterclass in syrupy false-innocence.  “As clean as Leander’s bed sheets after–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence and give me any mental images,” you beg.  “I have to sleep there tonight, I’d rather not know.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”  Vere agrees, closing his eyes and appearing to bask in the sun for a moment.  His face does something that you don’t quite catch–some hidden expression–but then, he’s smiling easily.  He must really be relaxed if he can still smile seconds after thinking about Leander.  You’re still admiring him when the shadows against the walls flicker, and suddenly he isn’t sitting next to you any more.

Instead, he’s returning from the kitchen, a tray in hand.

He sets it down in front of you, revealing an assortment of strawberries and an ornate silver porringer of what appears to be melted chocolate.  Vere sets it down on the table, plucking the small dessert spoon from the chocolate once he’s seated across from you again.

“Occasionally, life does offer up something sweet to savor–only for those willing to go out and take it.”  His tongue darts out to lick the chocolate off the spoon in his hand.  He maintains eye contact as his tongue laves across the basin and–embarrassingly–you think you get a little lightheaded from the intensity with which your blood rushes to your face.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you that he know exactly where your mind has gone.

Setting the spoon down, Vere instead picks up a bare strawberry, leaning in closer to press it gently to your mouth.

The chocolate is overly bitter–a little burnt, perhaps, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you’re tasting the remnants of it on Vere’s lips.

(Before leaving, you plop a few coins down on the counter as payment.  You brought enough to cover your food…but definitely not enough to cover the mess in the kitchen.  There’s really nothing you can do about that.  

You hope you don’t get blacklisted.  You’d like to come back next Monday.)

Hope you enjoyed if you made it this far! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Cardigan S (Pattern | Yarn | Thread)

I have officially cast on for this cardigan! Sleeve #1 (aka Swatch #3). The OG swatch I used size US 8 needles for both the pattern and the ribbing which is exactly what the pattern states but honestly I think my ribbing looks like dogwater. For Sleeve #1 I swapped to a US 6 for the ribbing and then on the increase row swapped back to US 8. The pattern also has you go directly from ribbing into pattern rows but I'm inserting a wrong side stockinette row for that increase/needle size up and we'll see how it looks.

My pocket swatch/Swatch #2/the one mostly covered up by my hand gave both good and bad news. In good news, 26 stitches is wide enough both for my hand and more importantly my cellphone. In bad news, it wants the pockets to only be five inches tall, and that is NOT enough for either my hand or my cellphone. Easy fix esp considering I plan on completely ignoring every single direction on how to make the pockets Except for the actual stitch count. More on that once I get the Second (and hopefully last) yarn I ordered for pockets.

I didn't realize but because of this shiny thread I'm going to have to knit both sleeves and the two front pieces one at a time.... Taking lots of notes for how many rows I do things in to hopefully match them well enough.

[comatosebunny09]

deep-fried | u. tengen

summary: he’s spoken to you in passing. friendly greetings and excuse me’s when he bumped into you at the grocery store. he can’t deny entertaining the thought of how soft your hips must feel. how cute you must sound, tongue curling around his name. genre: modern au, romance cw: mentions of alcohol, language, black female reader, suggestive themes, stream of consciousness, incomplete

Darkness swaddles him as the wind howls beyond the confines of his truck.

It’s quiet inside, save for the lazy purr of his Ram and the melancholy music spilling from his speaker. His grip on the steering wheel is lax as he creeps through his drowsy neighborhood, headlights shining off windows shut tight. 

The clock on his display reads 10:37. Another night spent rotting away in his office. He rolls out the kinks in his neck. Exhaustion leaks down his shoulders, curling around his bones and puddling at his feet.

The day wasn’t kind to him. He spent it in and out of meetings. Deals fell through. Clients were no-shows. He had to lay off a few of his strongest employees at the urging of his superiors to compensate for the company's financial imbalance.

All he wants now is a stiff one and the chilly clutch of his bed. Just wants to throw this week in the backseat along with his briefcase. Maybe he’ll scrounge up some three-day-old stir fry from his fridge before he hits the sheets.

But then it’s there, burning in his peripheral when he rounds the corner: orange and blue flames dancing in the wintry gale. Golden swatches of light bounce off your features, highlighting the smile rounding your lips. 

“What the...fuck?” Tengen rasps. He rolls the window down halfway and turns his music to a dull murmur. Slows to a stop, brakes squealing. He props his arm on the steering wheel. Your chuckle follows. Warm milk and honey to his ears. He finds your smile infectious, his own canting his lips.

“Howdy, neighbor!” Your voice is husky. Flirtatious even. You sit on your cozy outdoor sectional with a bottle gleaming in your fingers, raised to him in greeting. The breeze carries the oaky scent from your fire pit, reminding him of log cabins and days spent amid the snow.

“What’s this all about?” he asks, chin nestled in his palm. Surprised by how easy it is to skip formalities with you like he’s talking to an old friend. He’s not enamored. There’s no way. 

He’s spoken to you in passing. Friendly greetings and excuse me’s when he bumped into you at the grocery store. Simple conversations after running into each other at the gym. He can’t deny entertaining the thought of how soft your body must feel, though. How cute you must sound, tongue curling around his name in that Southern twang.

You stand, thighs thick even beneath the slouched fleece of your sweats. Throw your arms up, your sweater flashing a slither of smooth, dusky skin. His mouth waters. It takes all of him not to bite his lip.

“Shoooot! I made it through another week!” Your grin is lopsided as you rock to the mellow tunes flowing from your speaker. He falls deeper into your web, chuckling. He’s envious of your carefree nature. Wishes he could bottle it up for use on a rainy day. “Care to join me?”

The offer is tempting. Sure, Tengen planned to drink himself into a stupor. But your body language beckons him, and your finger curls in a come hither gesture while you dance like a tipsy fool. 

Fuck it. He could use a little respite.

His reply comes as easy as breathing in and out. “Gimme a sec to get out of this monkey suit, and I’ll see how I feel afterward.”

You giggle. Do an accomplished jig around the fire. Tengen can’t help but laugh as he slides off. You’re adorable in your own right. 

Excitement wriggles into his fingers as he slides into his driveway. Soon after, he slips into his house, toeing his loafers off by the door. Shimmies out of his coat, making a beeline for the shower, blood pulsing in his ears.

He carries the aroma of rosewood and smoke with him when he sidles up to your patio 30 minutes later. 

Tries to play it cool, hands shoved in his pockets, though his chest is afire. Pretty thing like you hankering for his company. He should be so lucky.

“Drink?” you offer, your tone heavy with inebriation.

Corona. He’s not the biggest fan. Prefers the sting of something sour, but he accepts it on his way down onto the cushion beside you, anyway. Tengen sits back in an easy slouch, draping his arm across the headrest. His rings clack against the glass as he brings the bottle to his lips, condensation dripping onto his turtleneck.

For a while, nothing but the sounds associated with nighttime fill the space between you. The fire pops and fizzes. Crickets chitter in the distance. Trees shiver in the breeze. A dog or two barks somewhere far off. Tengen falls prey to the inner workings of his mind before rustling fabric brings him back to the present.

“What's wrong, suga?”

His gaze drifts to you, angled towards him. Your vibe is maternal despite the distilled wheat wafting off your breath. Must be that Southern hospitality everyone talks about. He sighs with a drop of his shoulders, taking another swig. “Just another day at the office.”

“Wanna talk about it?” You lean closer. Fill his nose with the fragrance of cracked vanilla beans, heat rolling off you in waves. He finds himself disarmed around you. Nerves flare when your tiny fingers brand his quad, scorching him to the bone.

“Not really,” Tengen husks, lost in the idle stir of your eyes. He feels like he could tell you everything. But for now, he’s content with soaking up your presence. Hasn’t had a lady friend for some time now, having fully embraced bachelorhood.

“That’s alright.” Give his thigh a squeeze, irises twinkling with something indiscernible. The shadows cast by the fire shroud your intentions. “Just know that whatever storm you’re weatherin’ is temporary. ‘sides, it’s the weekend! It’s time to turn up!”

He chortles at how quickly the mood shifts. At your goofy little dance, taking another sip of his beer. His hand engulfs yours atop his thigh, entranced by the smoothness of it. He could get used to this. Get used to you.

The air feels lighter now. It’s easy to slide into meaningful conversation, throwing back a few more beers as the night eases into the wee hours of the morning.

At some point, he finds himself nestled in the plushness of your sofa inside.

The lights are turned off, the only illumination coming from the silvery moon peeking through your blinds. Sultry jazz tinges the air, chorusing with soft giggles and husky praise. A sheen of desire hangs overhead, intermingled with the smell of firewood clinging to your clothes.   

Your thighs are tender in his hands. Doughy like he knew they would be, framing his hips. Your fingers make an unhurried excursion to the hair at his nape as your lips brand his carotid. His responding chuckle is breathless, disbelieving. Vibrates your chest, your breasts warm against the hard press of his torso.

He's grinning like a fool, lids heavy. Can't help mulling over what brought you to this point as his hands engulf the dips of your hips. Sucks his lip between his teeth, his voice a low gravel as you bear down on the apex of his thighs.

[poisonf0rest]

𝐖𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭

In an attempt to uncover the truth, I must posit the questions of which are in dire need of answering to even begin to understand what exactly has befallen Yharnam:

What is the source of the Ashen Blood? What is the source of the Beastly Scourge? How, if, are these two illnesses of the body and mind related? Why, if blood ministration is the cure, has the Healing Church not acted sooner and treated all the Yharnamites?

Unless, they do not have a cure. 

Unless, they are the origin of the curse. 

Unless, this was simply the inevitable progression of mankind, and we were always doomed to revert back to the beasts we once thought ourselves so far above. An arrogance paralleled only to that of the Gods. 

And look where it got them… 

A week had passed until you finally summoned the Hunter, having exhausted all your other options. Any meager samples of beast blood or swatches of flesh you managed to forage from rotting carcasses on Yharnam’s deserted streets have long since been used up, and between inconclusive findings and a sheer lack of understanding of what was truly happening to these transforming humans, you’ve found yourself at yet another a dead end. 

You needed to begin from scratch, and that meant you needed knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, preferably.  

Tucking your satchel under your coat, you snuck out when the bell tower rang ten and two, slipping past the sentinels of the Church as you darted up the streets of Yharnam, waiting behind the gates of the Cathedral. The Church had only recently imposed a curfew for all citizens outside of Hunters, and yet the empty streets and distant howls of beasts reminded you of the nightmare your city is descending into. Now look at what you’ve been reduced to, sneaking around your own home. It’s pathetic. Infuriating. 

Crouched behind a ruined pillar, you eye the deserted plaza before you, following the cobblestone path leading up to the Healing Church’s grand gated entrance. Up, up, up as they ascend stairs until they breach those twin iron doors that loom over the city with their carvings of fallen angels and old gods. Little more than five years ago and you never would have never believed you’d one day voluntarily walk through those doors again. And yet here you are. 

Perhaps once you’d have begged God to forgive you for the trespass you’re about to commit, but it seems you and the rest of the Yharnam fell from Her grace long ago. 

“Glad to see my parting words of ‘stay away from the Church’ were dutifully followed.”

A yelp of surprise escapes you as you whirl around, falling gracelessly onto your ass as you curse, rubbing your injured tailbone. The Hunter crosses his arms, towering above you, only those suffocating red eyes visible from behind his black mask and hat. It makes your skin burn. 

“A simple, how are you, I’ve been well thank you, would have sufficed.” You grumble, standing whilst brushing mud and bramble from your clothes. “But I suppose you Hunters are never one for subtly, are you?”

“I am subtle.”

“You are dense, my dear Hunter. There is a difference.”

You can almost make out a frown from behind that mask of his. Regardless, you carry on. “The night grows no younger. I hope you came prepared, for your very first task is getting us inside the Cathedral without being spotted.” 

“And I’m to assume this is something you couldn’t accomplish by simply walking in and asking?”

“Not unless you want them to burn me for witchcraft. Imagine the look on the Vicar and the priests' faces if a woman- Saints fucking forbid- were to barge in and ask to read ancient books of medicine and history.” A scoff.  ”The fact I’m literate at all would probably cause a nun to faint.”

Diluc hums in vague amusement. “If not that then your foul tongue ought to do the trick.”

“Bastard.”

“Doctor.”

Not to mention, if anyone managed to recognize you, you’d be burnt at the stake. 

You shake away the thought, pushing past the Hunter as you point to the top of the cathedral, up at the marble spires and bell tower that disappear into the fog. Even the darkness fails to hide the imposing shadow it casts over the city.  “Up Hunter, take me up there.” 

You hardly finish your demand before Diluc grabs you, hoisting your body across his shoulder as though you were little more than a sack of wheat, scaling the iron gates and hauling the two of you up the side of the cathedral with one arm. 

It all happens so fast that you can only cling to him for dear life, screwing your eyes shut as your jaw hangs open in a silent scream. Gods, you were practically flying.  “You imbécile! Tête de nœud!” Ten thousand more curses race out from you, and yet they are lost to the howl of the wind. 

The higher the two of you climb, the louder the wails, drowning out the all-too-frequent heaves and strained grunts coming from the Hunter beneath you. Your hands clench harder into his coat as you desperately try to clear your mind. Happy thoughts. Damn it all, happy thoughts. 

“You may retract your talons from my back now.” 

Forcing an eye open, you find that the two of you made it to the top of the cathedral, standing upon a platform amid a triad of spires. 

You choke out a laugh, “Ah, many thanks, dear Hunter.” Patting his bicep, he lets you down hesitantly. Refusing to acknowledge just how far from the ground you are, you force your gaze upwards and cling to the stones framing one of the many glass windows at your back. Saints, did the clouds look closer or are you going insane? 

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look around for some sort of ladder or balcony.  “Now, if I mapped it out correctly, there should be a set of entrances scattered around the main belfry…” 

As though on cue, the bells begin to toll, a hollow, haunted sound that reverberates in your skulls as you both turn to see the main tower with the trio of bells. Their slow song continues, tolling nine times, a number once thought to ward off evil and to call for listeners to pray for the departing souls. 

But for whom the bell tolls, you never knew. Maybe it was for the city itself. 

“There,” you point. True to your word, nestled on the West wall of the belfry was a door, a ladder leading up to it on the cluster of spires right next to the one the two of you were currently perched on. 

The only remaining problem was the narrow rooftop connecting your tower to the main bell tower. And the several hundred feet between you and the ground should you choose to slip. 

The Hunter’s footsteps are silent as always, but you feel his warmth before you see him, radiating against your back as his hand grabs yours. A horrible moment for introspection, you know, but you can’t help but gawk at how far he towers over you, figure nearly blocking out the light of the moon with those arms the size of your head. A man bred and raised on destruction. 

“Are you paying attention?”

You jolt up, nodding. Diluc scoffs, grip tightening around your wrist as he drags the two of you toward the roof’s edge. “Then follow my lead, and do try not to fall. You’re not quite as light as you look.” 

There’s no time for a snarky comeback, as the Hunter drops down onto the roof scaffolding, tugging you along with him. The wind beats at your side as you place one trembling foot in front of another, desperately trying to match his pace without being blown right off the ledge. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Step by step, the two of you inch closer and closer to the main belfry, and once the ladder is within grasp, Diluc’s hand moves to grip your waist, hauling you towards him and perching you atop the ladder’s bottom rung. Climbing up, you heave as you pull yourself onto the tower platform, greeted with the sight of the oak door. Your way in. 

Rattling the doorknob, you push and pull against it, but the hinge doesn’t so much as budge. “Locked.” 

From the looks of it, surely the wood was rotten and soft, nothing a good kick couldn’t get through. You step back. Inhaling sharply, you thrust your boot into the door, only for your leg to recoil with a pained hiss, the wood letting out a low groan as though laughing at the attempt.  

Watching you curse out the poor door, Diluc smiles in faint amusement before nudging you aside. Then, he repeats the action, this time causing it to splinter on impact, his leg flying through the door frame as you flinch to avoid the fragments.

“After you, Doctor.”

Brute.

Reaching over, you lean into the yawning crevice, finding the hollow space to be something of an attic, littered with broken fragments of statues long forgotten and paintings woven in cobwebs. Oh, and at least two dozen crucifixes strewed about the room.

Further in, you cross a pile of folded black and white robes, that accursed Cosmic Eye Watcher Badge sitting on top, staring right back at you. A shiver seizes you by the ribs and you wrench your gaze away. 

Ducking beneath spiderwebs, you finally catch the iron gleam of what seems to be a trapdoor tucked away in the far corner. A looming shadow over you is the only indicator that the Hunter has followed, his footsteps near silent as he leans over you, pulling on the latch as the trapdoor heaves open, exposing the darkness below. 

Diluc goes first, lowering himself down before dropping into the gaping abyss. A second passes, then another, and only then do you finally hear the thud of his landing. Saints, the fall must be more than a dozen meters. 

Your heart lurches in your throat, and you’re in the midst of calculating your chances of making it out with both your kneecaps still intact when the Hunter’s voice calls up to you from the darkness. 

“Jump, I’ll be sure to catch you.” 

A curt laugh. “I’m hardly doubting your prowess, Hunter, but I’d imagine it would be quite difficult to catch something you can’t see.”

“Vileblood, remember. I see you perfectly.” You swallow. “Jump.”

Despite every morsel of rationale left in your body, you listen. Who knows, perhaps if you doubted him again he’d simply scale the wall and drag you down with him this time. Maybe the Vilebloods could fly? Turn into a bat? Note to test that theory later. 

Regardless, you brace yourself, dangling your legs through the trapdoor and forcing out another exhale. Your hands are shaking. 

Jump. 

Pushing off the floor, a cold gust of air beats against your limbs as you flail against nothing. Moments of horrid silence rush past you, jaw clamped shut as the abyss swallows you with each impossible second you fall further and further and further still. 

You swear a hellish eternity passes before you’re swiped from midair, crashing against something before a set of arms wrap around your torso, pulling you tight as you both land on solid ground. The force of the landing ricochets through your skull, and your head snaps back, teeth catching your unsuspecting tongue between them. A yelp, one hand un-fisting from the Hunter’s coat to cover your mouth. 

“Well done, I half expected you to come down cursing.”

A glare is all you settle for since your tongue is still throbbing. 

With a swat at his shoulder, Diluc promptly sets you down. He’s uncharacteristically gentle with it, first lowering your legs and bracing you against his chest as you recall how to properly use your joints, waiting for you to regain some semblance of balance before releasing you completely.

With your wits recollected and eyesight adjusted to the darkness, you take in the balcony layout, spotting the faint glow of melting candles and chandeliers on floors beneath you. Stone railings, rows and rows of stained glass windows, and a spiral set of stairs. 

You glance at the Hunter, but he seems to already have gotten the message, nodding as he takes the lead, beginning your descent into the Healing Church, and soon the catacombs below. 

Even whispering here would be foolish, for the arched stone ceilings of the cathedral carry every bit of sound up as though it were prayer, echoing as it goes. If only you could walk as quietly as the Hunter, his stealth allowing him to venture yards in front of you as he scours every corner and hallway the two of you creep through. The church was eerily empty, only the distant hymn of the choir and the screaming of beasts in the village reverberating through every hall as though in song. 

You know what the Hunters are. People from far and wide come to Yharnam for the miracle blood ministration, the promise of being cured of any ailment enough to persuade them into signing their very right to death away– cursed for eternity to Hunt. To die again and again until they turned into the very beasts they hunted. 

Your Vileblood Hunter, you wonder how long he’s been cursed to this undying death? 

Perhaps it’s your innate curiosity, perhaps it's your innate fear. Either way, something beyond your comprehension keeps luring you back to him, and perhaps that in and of itself should have been the first warning sign.

But you were blind to it, and only in the end would your true eyes open. 

By then, only ashes will remain.

The two of you descend five floors- if you’ve been keeping count correctly- turning into yet another hallway when the heavy thud of armored footsteps begin approaching. The shadow of a knight emerges just beyond the next corner. You freeze.

Frantic, you scan the desolate church halls, catching the Hunter’s wrist before shoving the two of you into a crevice behind a sculpture of a Saint. The stubborn fool resists for a moment, but you hiss some curses under your breath, shoving his all-too-large figure behind the statue as you crawl between the marble and his body, panting from effort and sheer terror. 

You’ve seen what the Church does to the sinners— they rot, nailed to crosses for days. You can’t imagine what they’d do to a traitor. 

You slap a hand over your mouth, bracing against Diluc’s taller form before covering his mouth as well, watching as the glow from the lantern gets brighter. Your heart screams against your ears as you watch the guard walk right past. 

Gods old and new be blessed, he fails to notice the two of you pressed against the marble and continues down the hall. 

But, you must admit, getting out would prove much harder than getting in, as you’ve thoroughly lodged yourselves between the wall and the numerous corners of the statue, nearly immobile as you relinquish your grip over Diluc’s mouth, still entirely pressed up against him. 

Every breath seizing your chest forces the two of you closer, an undistinguishable tangle of limbs blocking you as you try and escape, only to stumble over the Hunter’s boot, flailing as you lurch forward. This time it’s Diluc’s hand that grabs your face, stopping you mere inches from bashing into the side of the statue, a sound that would have undoubtedly been enough to alert the guard. And give you a concussion. 

Pulling you back against his chest, the Hunter’s breath fans your neck for a heartbeat, only for him to promptly lift you onto the arm of the sculpture, allowing you to climb over the marble and down the other side.

He’s warm. So unnaturally warm you still feel his breath against your skin, you still feel his touch through the rough leather of his gloves, lingering even though he has already begun walking down the next flight of stairs. You shiver.

“I didn’t plan on being so far in your debt, Hunter.”

The man doesn’t respond, silent as he descends. Then a pause. “There is no debt between us, Doctor. We made a vow.”

“Vow?” 

Running to catch up, you hum in consideration, remembering your first fateful encounter at the clinic. “Then I suppose you’d want more of my blood after this?” He flinches, and you scoff. “Oh please, I have plenty to go around. If that is all it takes for me to keep such a valuable assistant to myself then I’d say I’m getting the good end of the deal.” 

The Hunter refuses to acknowledge your quip with a response and continues down the stairs. You follow with a huff.

Ultimately, the library was easy to find, for a grand set of stairs lined with half-melted candles and the statues of the Saints led the two of you up to a set of heavy copper doors, each carved with the original scribe and inventor of language herself, Saint Enoch. 

Placing your hands upon the doors, you lean in, nearly kissing the copper with your lips as you whisper a hymn, ancient latin coaxing the lock open as it clicks and turns with your voice. If the Hunter hears you, he says nothing. 

With the last verse the doors unlock, and you push into the Healing Church’s Grand Library.

The room was a spiraling chamber, rising for what appeared to be an eternity as shelves of books ascended every wall of the spire. Silver fixtures glow in the candlelight, illuminating the murals that adorn every pillar scattered across the library, strewn about like a stone forest. 

Walking deeper, you pass under staircases and ladders both, eyes trailing across the marbled floor, stone cracked with gold and silver as it too gleams in the low light. Etched in the cracks spanned the map of the entire kingdom, from Yharnam, to Paris, to Liyue and beyond. What a powerful feeling, to have the city’s knowledge at your fingertips and the world itself beneath your feet. 

The further you venture, the stranger the contents of the library get: shelves turning from stacks of books to exhibits, lined with jarred specimens of every beast and bone, tarnished armor of knights long-forgotten, and even collections of skulls from things both of this world and not. 

Skimming your hand along a shelf, you thumb at the endless row of books, pulling one out before tucking it under your arm, adding to your already growing stack. 

Without looking back, you call out to the Hunter, “If you notice books on medicine, blood, or the Beastly Scourge do bring them to me. I’ll begin on the left and you can take the right, that way we can cover more ground. Although, truthfully we’ll likely need several nights to look through it all.” 

You pull out another book, and another, equally impressed and disgusted at the sheer amount of literature and knowledge preserved in these halls, just rotting away.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Silence. 

Snapping the book in your hands shut, you crane your neck backward. “Do you hear me, Hunter?” 

More silence. 

Stepping out of your current row, you easily spot the flame-colored hue of his hair in the far corner of the library, standing before an enormous glass case. A display, filled with the skulls of Vilebloods.

“Yes, rather charming to know the Healing Church’s infatuation with my kind goes back for so many generations.” He scoffs, shrugging his claymore higher onto his shoulders before lumbering off. 

And yet your gaze lingers, taking in the carnage so proudly set on display before you. Saints, some of those skulls looked like they couldn’t have been more than four years of age when they died. 

Killed— you remind yourself— the Cainhurst Vileblood lineage was executed at the command of the Church a little over a century ago.

It was taught to be a righteous campaign, a tale of valor and victory told every Sunday morning before lessons on the sword and the alphabet. The Crusade was a holy cleansing to rid the world of the blasphemy that was the creation of the Vileblood— daemon, devil, Vampyr. Born from a sinner’s betrayal and the revered Old Blood, it was an accepted truth that the Vilebloods threatened the purity of the Healing Church and their mission to cleanse Yharnam. 

You still remember the vows word for word, each letter tasting of copper and fire against your tongue: “Those who kill in the name of god shall have their sins absolved and thus immune to the scourge of beasts. Seek the Old Blood.”

And yet, that’s the funny thing about truth, it depends entirely on the power of the man who wields it. And fear is always at its most powerful when disguised as devotion.

Time seemed to slip by as you drowned yourself in readings, undisturbed until the bell tower rang for zero and three. Dawn was approaching, and the church would awaken soon. 

Stretching, you stand from the oak chair with a low groan. The Hunter sat on the far end of the long table, nearly hidden from view behind your ever-accumulating stack of books. 

Waltzing closer, you peer over his shoulder. "Find anything?"

"Quite a bit of nonsense," Diluc drones, closing the book he'd been skimming. You noticed how fast he flipped through it, processing the information as the pages fluttered by at an inhumane pace. "You say this library holds the knowledge you need for your experiments, and yet all I’ve read so far are fairytales about glorified martyrs and gods."

Unfortunately, you're inclined to agree. 

Originally you hypothesized that perhaps the personal journals of past Maesters and Vicars would guide you towards uncovering some of the knowledge the Healing Church has been hiding, but instead all you got were fanatic moondrunk rantings and all-too-personal facts about old men. 

You sigh. “Perhaps the true reason this collection is forbidden in the first place is out of the profound embarrassment that someone was stupid enough to collect it in the first place.”

Diluc offers something of a laugh then, the sound low and rough.  "Lovely reading, I’m sure."

"Oui, well, lovely as it might be, it’s useless." Another sigh and you thumb through the finished stack of books.  "The only piece that might lead us somewhere is the mention of someone named Laurence. This particular journal goes on and on about the Archbishop, but it does mention a sort of deviation that this Laurence initiated, causing a sort of split long before the formation of the Healing Church itself.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrow, and he walks towards you, glancing at the page. “Laurence. The First Vicar.”

“You knew him?”

Diluc stiffens. “I knew of him. Anyone whose history wasn’t falsified by the Healing Church knows of the Hellfire Beast. But if it’s the knowledge of the First Vicar you’re searching for then chances are you need to locate Byrgenwerth College. All of what you call sacred in Yharnam traces back to those dregs of society.” 

“Byrgenwerth has been sealed off for a century.”

If the Hunter notices how quickly you cut him off, he doesn’t comment on it. “Forgive me, I didn’t particularly take you as one to follow the Church’s boundaries. After all, you are the one who dragged us here.” 

“Yes, well…” 

You don’t have an argument. You just know you’d rather claw your own eyes out than step one foot back into those accused halls. 

Plucking the journal from the Hunter’s grasp, you stuff it into your satchel alongside two other books that mention Lawrence The First Vicar and the Beastly Scourge. The two of you work in silence to place the books back onto the shelves, and when you’re certain the Vampyr isn’t looking, you manage to pack a few books on the Cainhurst Vilebloods into your bag too. 

The Hunter is very much still an enigma to you, and if you’re to work with him and find the cure to Yharnam’s plague, then you’d want to make sure you knew everything you could about his kind. Especially if anything were to go wrong. 

You’re still in the midst of re-stacking some books in ancient Greek in the left wing of the library when the Hunter’s voice interrupts your subconscious murmuring. 

“I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet.”

You jump, spewing curses as he— yet again— makes it a habit to appear behind you out of thin air. 

“I hadn't realized you needed it,” you say, lifting onto your toes as you struggle to reach a high shelf. The Hunter takes the book from your gasp and slots it back into place, figure now looming over your own as hands grip the wooden shelf above your head. Intimidation, you realize. And it’s working. 

“It’s only polite to address a lady by their namesake.” You scoff, but he continues. ”So then you have no intention of learning my name either?”

“I’ve grown to rather like calling you my dear Hunter. Unless you’d prefer a new nickname? Something more extravagant? Mon petit monstre? Mon chéri?”

His grip tightens, and you hear the wood splinter. “I never quite understood how a Doctor such as yourself came to know French, either.”

“Oh, all the better to sing hymns with, I assure you. The Church enforces French, Latin, and even Greek if you’re unlucky enough.” 

This finally stops him entirely. You can feel the heat of his blood-red gaze bearing into you before he speaks. “You were raised by the Church?”

You’re quiet, unnaturally still under his stare. Flipping through a book, you wave a hand, eyes glued to the pages as you respond half-heartedly. “Partially. My guardians were, ah, somewhat of a devout group.” 

This would never work— a partnership truly doomed from the start. Like a sick sort of epilogue only found at the beginning of a Greek or Shakespeare tragedy to herald in an inevitable demise. And yet, you were quickly growing addicted to this waltz composed of lies and half-truths, stuck dancing to a tune that could only be sung for self-indulgence and sin. 

“Diluc.” 

You look up, voice escaping you. “What?”

“Diluc Ragnvindr, of the Noble Cainhurst.”

The two of you simply stare for a heartbeat, then a heartbeat more. Finally, you say your name, each syllable heavy and rotted like a corpse unearthed. Hesitantly, you add, “of the Choir.” 

And for the first time, you see the Hunter smile. Your name suits you. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Within the next week, you finally show Diluc to your lab, mainly because you required his supernatural strength and coordination to carry in your new stack of stolen books from the Healing Church’s library. 

As he finishes organizing the journals as you instructed, you place a pot over a small fire to begin brewing some tea, allowing Diluc to wander around the lab as he takes in the bustling room. 

It smelled of dried herbs, sulfur, and something stronger, something bolder that smelled of yearning, every inhale like stepping into the sunlight when the day is still on the cusp of winter and spring, a promise of new beginnings while remembering the pain of the winter. It races down Diluc’s spine and makes his gums prick with every inhale— it’s the same scent that clings to you. 

“What is all of this?” Diluc asks, not daring to touch any of the bubbling concoctions or the variety of steaming tubes or vials. He even holds his breath, careful not to inhale too deeply. 

It looked more like a little forest than anything else, an ecosystem of chemicals and blood and life and death itself encased in glass and steel and fire and mystery. Science.

Innovation, you called it. 

“It’s the best this rotting city has to offer,” you say, sweeping aside a pile of books to make space among the clutter for yet another journal. Flipping through pages, you read off sections in Greek, Latin, French, and English, flickering past diagrams of limbs, hearts, and humans. “The greatest minds in Europe think the answers to our universe lie in dead gods or dying gods, helpless in the face of disease or disaster. But long ago mankind could understand the root of infections like the Scourge, execute surgeries to restore eyesight, and perform miracles that now could only be described as alchemy or witchcraft. All of these inventions lost to time and ignorance.” 

“Will it bring you the answers?”

You freeze, looking at your life’s work.

 “I don’t know.” 

The kettle hisses, breaking the silence with its scream. 

Diluc moves first, lifting the pot off the fire and pouring it over two cups, one a dainty teacup, plastered with chipped paint and the other a misshapen mug with a crack down its side, watching the water swirl and brown with the tea leaves. 

Holding out both cups, he gives a curt nod. “Very well. If you believe the answer to the scourge lies in my blood, take what you desire.”

He looks so serious, standing there, that you can't help the wry smile cracking across your lips. “You ought to be more wary of your words,” you purr, “my dear Hunter.”

Taking the mug from his grip, you let your hands lace around his, tugging him towards you as he turns as stiff as the claymore still strapped to his back. “What I need and what I desire may well be two very different things.” 

Despite your best attempts, your eyes fall to his lips. 

They often do. Much too often recently. 

You never really noticed before, mainly because his Hunter attire covers the majority of his face, but the man before you is so unfairly pretty. His untamed mane curls around all the hard angles of his face, like flames licking at a marble statue, the same blood-red hue of his hair burning in his eyes. As he leans in closer, you catch flickers of gold in them as well. Even with the Vampyr healing abilities, Diluc's skin is littered with scars your eyes could send an eternity tracing, one cutting across his permanently creased brows, another at his lips, and a crook in his nose where you're certain he's broken it more than a dozen times. It never occurred to you how badly you wished to touch him.

Vampyr beauty is different from mortal beauty. It is arresting, frightening. A visage that demands a sort of painful devotion, the perfect face to lure mortals willingly into their embrace and weep for more. Diluc is no exception. 

Even with the mars across his skin, he looks like a being worthy of praying to. 

A shaky inhale and you jolt up, only to find Diluc in a similar paradox. Transfixed, it is almost as if he doesn’t realize the intensity he’s lost himself in, the furrow between his brows and the slight frown of his pursed lips almost cute if it wasn’t for the burning sensation it seized you with. 

He leans forward, hesitating. Slowly, as though any movement would startle him, you take the cups from his grasp, placing them down without ever letting his fingers unlace from yours. He might slip from your grasp if you do. But he doesn’t, not this time. 

It shouldn’t mean much, really, the brush of rough knuckles and the slow slide of your fingers as they find their home between his, and yet you swear there is something cathartic in the way they fit together; a touch that served no purpose but to connect in a world so hellbent on destruction. 

One hand leaves his, lifting to cup his face as you thumb along his cheekbone, your fingertips burning as they catch on every ridge and scar. Diluc leans into your touch, body pressing into yours as the two of you stumble backward. The back of your knees buckle against a table just as he seizes you by the small of your back, pulling you against him before you can completely topple over. Diluc’s other hand rests against the table, caging you against him as your fingers remain intertwined. 

You’re burning. His flame-kissed gaze refuses to leave yours, and you’re burning at the edges with every second you lie under it. 

“Diluc,” you say. You don’t know why. He shudders. 

“Diluc,” you shift, leaning closer as your neck cranes up, lips brushing the bottom of his chin, the faint stubble there rough and tasting like smoke. He cranes his neck in response, granting you further access as your lips eagerly follow the pale expanse of skin. Entranced, you press harder, and with the gentle scrape of your teeth, he makes a low noise deep in his throat, like an animal in pain. You dare say his name again. 

“Diluc—”

The door to the lab swings open. 

The laughter of the two twins tumbles into the room as they burst through the doorway, only to be cut short when they notice the two of you stunned in the far corner of the room. 

“Timmy! Eileen! What have I told you both about running around the clinic?” 

Diluc practically launches himself away from you, vanishing as he reappears on the opposite side of the room, but not before Alison charges in after the children, eyes wide as she already connected the dots the younger two were still processing.  “Saints, I am so—” In a blink she slaps her hands over the eyes of the twins, dragging them out of the lab while stuttering over a thousand apologies, shutting the door behind her with a slam. 

You love your children, you really do. But Saints, did you want to strangle them right now. 

Looking around the lab, your fears are proven correct as you fail to find Diluc, the Hunter has already vanished into the night as he so often does. A sigh and you stand, a noticeable chill now infecting the lab as it bubbles on in silence. 

You should chide him for always running away. You would, if only it wouldn’t make you an even bigger hypocrite. 

And so you accept the cold, lingering in the silence.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Neither of you really notices when Diluc begins visiting regularly, making a habit of swinging in through the clinic’s window, covered in Beast blood. It has become something of a routine: you snapping at him for tracking in filth, him completely disregarding your words, a moment of bickering mostly on your end before he drops a sample of his recent hunt on your table as a peace offering. 

Recently, however, the Hunter has been bringing an assortment of other items as well. From an entire deer or a bundle of rabbits, to newly forged bullets for your rifle, to toys for some of the younger children. 

Speaking of which, it’s unfair how quickly the children warmed up to Diluc. They practically worship the Hunter. 

Like tonight, you’re busy preparing supper with Edwin and half-hearted help from Alison when you hear the tell-tale knock reverberate from the attic above the clinic. 

Setting down the kitchen knife, you wipe the chicken guts coating your hands on your apron, about to open the door accessing the stairs when a mini mob beats you to it. Overlapping shrieks and calls from the four youngest children echo down the hall as they jump to greet the Hunter currently ducking through the doorframe, then promptly tackled by the swarm. 

“How many did you kill tonight?”

“Take me on a Hunt! I’ll be the best Hunter you’ve ever seen, I’ve been working on my swing, look!” The red-head boy lunges with a stick, about to smack his brother on the head when he dodges. Another swing quickly leads to a fight, the two tussling before Diluc until the Hunter pries them apart by the collars, procuring two wooden figures from his coat. 

Lucian, the redhead, gasps, “You remembered!”

“Of course I did. How could I forget the request of my favorite warriors?” The boys smile up at Diluc, half-toothed and ecstatic, before they run off to play with the wooden soldiers.

The Hunter lets out a low sigh of exhaustion at the mere show of their energy, but he should have known better than to let his guard down so soon. He had only just begun to rise when the twins made their attack, tugging against his coat lapels and at his elbow, laughing all the while. 

“Let us see your claymore again, please, please, pretty please!”

A smile cracks your lips as you watch the scene unfold. “The almighty Hunter, felled by a swarm of children. What ever would the Church think?”

“I think,” Diluc grunts, falling to one knee as the twins leap onto his back, cheering. “They ought to enlist these ones as Hunters. Far more terrifying than I am.” 

A hum, “I’m inclined to agree.”

Yes, he’s becoming a regular part of all of your lives, and the thought of that scares you more than you’d like to admit. 

[poisoned-pearls]

vomiting out the brain mush rotting in my brain for days before i eep

azul has moles on his neck, his wrist, his upper arm n below his collarbone (two of them are ones i have, the other two are for funsies). he grew used to them overtime though he isn't particularly fond of them. jamil makes him feel better about them by constantly kissing those very spots silly, leaving a blushy blue mess that is azul every time.

after noticing that jamil has very faint freckles on his face, azul does the same thing jamil does w his moles. (though jamil is actually alright w his freckles, he still appreciates the kisses)

also, i hc azul as filipino (because i am) n his favorite terms of endearment are 'mahal' (love/expensive, the meaning depends on where you use it) & 'liyag' (darling)

ABSBWNSBSHSBSH YESSSSS. I LOVE the idea of Jamil turning Azul’s general suave back onto HIM and Azul having NO CLUE how to process it. Jamil gentlest grabbing his face and parts of his body to kiss his moles? Man is GONE. He does NOT know what to do. And blue blush Azul. Man is a mess. Jamil loves to tease him abt the blue (*holds up paint swatch* “this is the shade you turn when I kiss you” “SHUT UP-“)

and ahajshsnhsnsbsnshs freckled Jamil!! Ah that’d be so fun. Azul notices them one day and he LOCKS IN on them. Dude is obsessed. He can map them out. It’s been tested ace handed him paper he drew out all of them and later ace compared them at basketball practice and went “what the fuckkkkk” bc he’s correct.

also Nabsbsbahs I love Filipino Azul! The Azul I use most often is Japanese (like when referring to Nami, etc-) but AUGH those terms of endearment are SO correct. Man would absolutely call Jamil expensive (AS IN HES WORTH A LOT NOT THAT HE COSTS Azul A LOT-) and AUGH. Azul is a classic little man. He likes his little romance tropes so any form of darling is correct

[lokisis]

(Can I treat this askbox like an actual email?)(I have conflict to create)(if this is too meta, tell me so I can adjust future asks ^_^)

To: Pink

Cc: Blue, Spamton

Hi guys! How's everyone doing? Are things going good? Here's a pretty photo that I took, of a city from the Pacific Northwest of the "light world"

Being dramatic and cryptic is really fun! Here's some more pompous and /totally/ nonsense statements that I can make. Don't take it seriously. Don't listen too closely. Why would I tell the truth? But then, why would I lie?

:)

Pink, there is an abandoned machine that, in the light world was a drawing of the dream of a Lightner (presumably the dream of a certain ghost monster—who I will not name at this time).

But here (cyber world) it's a big robotic machine with wings, abandoned and tangled in vines and rotting away in a hidden room in the queen's mansion. If you ask Swatch (mansion butler) about it, they will likely refuse to tell you much of anything about it, but they know about the machine because they helped in making it.

For some reason (which I know but won't explain) spamton really really wants to get this machine (he's not meant to get it)(and probably banned from the mansion for repeatedly attempting to steal it)(from what I've seen, he's also scared of swatchlings for similar reasons)(hard to say for suresies)(I'm kind of working with literal actual subtext—like the storytelling kind—here. So. A lot of uncertainty.).

Funny thing is—it's doomed from the start. The vines that I mentioned, will become green cables or strings like a marionette, and while he would be powerful, he wouldn't be free. And, cutting the strings will just cause him to fall, and the machine to break, and killing him to the fullest extent that darkners are capable of dying. (In the versions of events that I can "read," he gets turned into an item) (hard to explain)

If I got enough of the details correct, you'll be able to confirm soon. But, I'm sure it's so blatantly obviously a lie, that it won't have any truth at all.

Of course, you won't believe a word you hear from me. Right?

I'm really just here to have fun, and sounding pretentious is tons of fun! So, once again, that was a nonsense story with zero actual meaning, just meant to waste everyone's time ;)

Have a wonderful day.

Bye!

- Marrow

Wh- hey!!

He doesn't need to see this.

Not yet, anyway.

(It functions more like mail, so only the recipient and nearby ppl can see it. They're still "emails" but it's bc they're already "e" yknow?)

[eidysims]

Retro Rest and Sweet Sleeper. Beds to rot in. <3 I wanted a more cottage core-esque little bed set, and I am always always wanting more vintage beds, so here we are. Retro Rest has some fabric swatches from the 20s-70s, Sweet Sleeper is lots of cute florals and animals and sweet things. More below!

Poor quality gif to show you most of the swatches. Retro Rest: DL SFS, Horse Ranch Required Sweet Sleeper: DL SFS, Discover University Required Enjoy <3

[cor-lapis-candy]

So there is a very very talented artist on Instagram under the name daione.sith (100% look at their stuff! And of you have the money their patreon cause !!!! The NSFW versions!) And they have a demon Diluc drawing and good lord has it given me an idea.

So here I come like some kind of goblin out of my lil cave of Minecraft and grinding to give you this.

This piece doesn't really need a CW or a TW to my knowledge, but if religious themes or anything to do with possessive themes makes you umcomfy maybe don't read this one!

Have you ever seen the Anemo Archons cathedral in the afternoon?

Rays of golden light transformed into halos of gold and blue, green specks filling gaps between pure white streaks, the air filled with specks of dust that drift and paint the cracks between each colour stained display of devotion. Candles of every kind, pillars and tealights, long burning towers of wax that are lit day in and day out, melting and painting old stained wood with pools of faded whites and yellows, all long since forgotten and uncleaned after their purpose had been served.

There is piety in the air and whispered hymns on the lips of every soul that passes through those doors, heads bowed and hands offered in prayer and open devotion, and yet one resounding set of steps is all it takes to taint and defile, the solid click after click of his shoes against polished tile is a simple rhythm that sinks sin into the very stone foundations of the cathedral, a rot of domination seeping into the roots and curling around the heart of the church of freedom.

A demon in only your mind alone, and a saint in all others eyes, the uncrowned king and deep shadow across your devotion looms over you, standing as he always does, clothed in his jacket and hands ringed in simple yet daunting steel rings, lips moving through mockeries of prayer after prayer as the air fills with thick incense.

The censer by your side long since burnt out, a centerpiece to the flowing wreaths and displays of devotion through fruit and wine, the ash that falls and spills from the gaps tells of age and endless nights in the fogs of devotion and prayers that the red haired man that has come to curl around your back would disappear from your side, that 'The Diluc Ragnvindr' would turn those crimson eyes from you and find some other lamb to lead a stray, and yet again you feel the heat of his gloves drag across your arms, his hands pulling you backwards into the broad expanse of his chest.

The scent of incense is overpowered but the smell of oak, wine and something burnt, like the after scent of a fireplace or boiler pit, it smelt like iron and ash.

You know what lies under the heavy finery, that the moment you step out of these hallowed halls and step over the threshold of your home there is no archon or divine grace to save you, red hair will give way to arching horns and draping layers with loosen and fall away to leave the defined lines and markings of his true nature bare.

A sight many women and men would kill for will lay bare and inviting on your bed, legs spread with one hand lazily pumping his length. Fingers dragging the small trail of pre further down and making the ridges and inhuman shape all that more prominent, black trails that swirl across his hips and up around his chest, for something so inhuman he plays the role well, a thick swatch of red hair covers his chest and leads wispily down his stomach.

The deep red of his hair mats itself with sweat and other evidence of your entanglement, something of both his and your own, and yet it's not a matter of when you would give in but how.

Some Days he would catch you before you got into the cathedral, other day, ones much like this one, he would cradle you through your last prayers and escort you home, making you a sight of envy for all those that would catch sight of the two of you, and oh how people would see. The route he would make you take winds the many main streets and side roads, every set of envying eyes would watch as his gloves hands dug into your hips, how he let you push against him and made him chuckle.

The sound mistaken for mirth when really it was nothing but condescension.

Whatever his end goal was, Diluc Ragnvindr was working his way into your heart and head, somedays all it took was a flash of the fiery red of his hair and you would be wound up expecting those heavy hands and ash laiden words to coax you off your beaten path and into the dark of some ally for a quick moment of hushed breaths and shape teeth digging into whatever skin you had exposed or could be exposed.

But here in your home as he lays back, horns ripping through the plush pillow you had bought not a day before, red tipped claws digging into the soft skin of your hips and dragging you further and further down his cock making the finale ridge of something just shy of to big, to wide, too much for you, press against your opening as he huff out a laugh.

Today he would take you wholly, leave you gasping and open mouthed as he sunk that finale but of himself into you, stained you inside and out with himself, marks of theet and hands mean nothing to how he will know that he finally came in you, finally painted your inside with his spend.

How glorious it will be the day he gets you watch you stumble back from that cathedral to his winery, to drape yourself across his lap and grasp at the base of his horns and beg for him, true devotion to him, true adoration and nothing but from you, to him would be the icing on this long overdue cake.

For now though he will enjoy the fucked out and watery eyes stare from you as he pushes you that little bit further down his cock, bottoming out and drawing a deep gasp from your lips.

For now this will do…